too pale to protest
ballerina and moth
collide inside
an eaten quest
skin pressed
against wing
modifiers and ribbons
tumble, laundry refuses
to come clean.
the gardener demands
a confession: who has chewed
all of my June-thriving weeds?
Not I!
the chorus complies
with denial; I am weak,
tricked by artificial light,
lunaticking toward
airborne respite.
No comments:
Post a Comment